


To The Death

by neverending_moomin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Blow Job, Character Death (obviously), Dark John, Grave digging, Major character death - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Referenced BDSM, Violence, he kills loads of people, he's a psychopath, mostly - Freeform, nobody notices how fucked up John is, seriously, technically he only kills bad guys, what i'd call graphic depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverending_moomin/pseuds/neverending_moomin
Summary: John Watson isn’t a particularly nice person. He doesn’t look it, in fact, most people when looking at him see a kind man. He’s a doctor for Chrissakes. He helps people, but he doesn’t actually care whether they live or die, in fact, they would most likely be more interesting if they were dead. The nurses fawn over him, and his soft smile, they don’t see the predator underneath, no one does.  If Sherlock's not going to stick around and entertain him, well, there's a whole city outside his front door who'll have to suffer instead.





	To The Death

**Author's Note:**

> John is a psychopath who goes on a bit of a killing spree after Reichenbach. So yeah. Quite a bit darker than my usual stuff i'll admit, hope you like it.

John Watson isn’t a particularly nice person. He doesn’t look it, in fact, most people when looking at him see a kind man. He’s a doctor for Chrissakes. He helps people, but he doesn’t actually care whether they live or die, in fact, they would most likely be more interesting if they were dead. The nurses fawn over him, and his soft smile, they don’t see the predator underneath, no one does.  

He goes out on cases with Sherlock when the man calls, and invariably ends up with bruised knuckles and a manic grin fighting for dominance. End’s up with a criminal between his hands, fearing him, realising how dangerous he is. John lives for this, for the look in their eyes when they realise that this jumper-clad, 5ft 6, 41-year-old man is going to end their life, and more-over is going to enjoy it. Too often though, the opportunity is ripped out of his hands. He hates Sherlock with a passion when the man comes hurtling in on John with a suspect in his grasp, or gets in the way in some misguided notion of saving John, when John was the one who was about to ‘accidentally’ elbow the assailant he's currently grappling with, in such a way that will rupture his spleen, causing massive internal bleeding which will lead to his death in approximately thirty-four minutes, and be entirely blameless on John whilst being entirely his fault.  It's most vexing to be interrupted. To be denied what he has _ear_ _ned_. 

He thinks about splitting Sherlock open, peeling back that flawless, pale skin and admiring the organs pumping away, moving about. Then he’d reach out and _squeeze_ the heart, crush the life force right out of him, in the place Sherlock claims not to have. Why burn the heart out of him Mr Moriarty? Why not feel it as you kill him, watch as it stills, as the blood runs round your fingers. Someone’s life-force staining you as you steal it. Up close and personal, that’s death, that’s fun. Mr Moriarty.  

When he has these thoughts, looking over at Sherlock and imagining his death, his _murder_ , John can’t help but laugh a little. Most people looking at the pair of them do see a psychopath, it’s just they seem to think it’s Sherlock. Sherlock, a Psychopath, really, the idea is laughable. Mind you, he supposes, Sherlock might just hide it as well as John does. John is definitely on the scale somewhere, nestled in between sociopath and psychopath. He looks like he cares about people, forces himself to really, but deep down he’s thought about killing everyone he knows at least once, Sherlock he thinks about most days. Maybe that caring.  

Maybe he won’t peel Sherlock open. Perhaps he could dissolve him in acid, one inch at a time. They could watch it happen together; John dissolving Sherlock. It would be fun. Or maybe it would be an accident – whoops, Sherlock blew up the flat with one of his experiments, no-one would know John lit the match. Then again, he wouldn't have anywhere to live if he blew the place up, terribly messy too, all his belongings scattered everywhere. Impersonal as well. So, no, he won’t blow them up. 

The trouble with planning, fantasising about a situation over and over again is, that when it comes to pass, once the event occurs, it very rarely occurs in the way you planned it.  

*** * * * * ***

When Sherlock jumps off Bart’s John is watching. On the outside, he looks like he’s grieving. On the outside, he looks horrified. And he is, truly he is horrified that Sherlock is taking his own life. It’s just, mostly he’s horrified that Sherlock is taking his own life and not letting John do it. That Sherlock beat John to it. There’s also a vague lick of satisfaction, a rush that comes with watching someone he ‘cares about’ die.  

People think he’s numb in the aftershock, offering platitudes. John ignores them, not because he’s in shock, no, because they irritate him really. The man’s dead, now John is back to being bored, and his skull throbs with the effort not to reach out and snap all of their necks. His therapist had been like that too, he recalls. Ella. She had sat opposite and tried to peer into his mind – it would have been more effective if she’d cracked his skull open. That searching gaze and soft questions, assumptions that he was haunted by the war. _Haunted_ by it. The number of times he’d stopped himself from snorting outright at the thought. Those sessions had been tedious, and apparently necessary, so he’d passed them thinking about her death. How easy he’d find it to strangle her, perhaps suffocating via one of those revolting cushions she kept around the place. In the end the only reason he didn’t was because he was fairly certain her dead, glassy eyes would have stared at him accusingly and then he’d have done something stupid like turn himself in for her murder – not that they wouldn't have likely caught him without the confession. That was the other useful thing about Sherlock. John could have killed him, and everyone would have thought it an accident, or Sherlock’s fault, would never have suspected nice John Watson. Being found standing over someone’s dead body, or being the last person said person had seen prior to their death was far harder to wrangle yourself out of. That’s why John had always put himself in position to kill without blame or suspicion. War was good for that. So many people dying anyway, being told to shoot at the enemy, patching up wounded soldier’s susceptible to all sorts of things. John’s death count hadn’t been higher than many others, it’s just some of his were preventable, some John had known how to prevent, and he hadn’t. 

It’s two months after Sherlock’s death that a thought occurs to John; Moriarty. He could kill Moriarty, or at least his men, and no-one would blame him. Mycroft would probably thank him actually. It’s a nice thought, so he makes tea and toast and sets about arranging to meet with Mycroft, loosely thinking if all else failed Mycroft would probably make a nice dead body. Tied up, poisoned slowly. He’d make Mycroft suffer. Maybe lots of cuts, make the man bleed out, that would probably be painful too. See which got him first; the pain or the poison. He’s not decided yet, which way Mycroft would die when he reaches the man’s office at the Diogenes club, a cheerful smile pasted on his lips, it drops the moment Mycroft can see him, and the slightly blank look of grieving replaces it, anger backing it up, he's had plenty of time to practise this look and even the great Holmes brothers would never see through his charade.  

“Mycroft.” He greets, voice full of steel. “I want Sherlock’s skull.” The words surprise him as they pass his lips, not that they aren’t true. He’d thought about it; keeping Sherlock’s skull around. It would keep him company about as well as the man had done when he was alive, and would be generally quite nice to have, a souvenir of some kind. Mycroft simply looks at him with a slightly confused, pained expression.  

“To my knowledge, Yorik still resides at 221B Baker Street, with you.” 

“Not what I meant, and you know it. I want _Sherlock’s_ skull.” To run his hands over the notches and crevices of the man, the vessel for his brain, Sherlock’s most prized possession.   

“No.”  

“Why not? I need him.”  

Mycroft regards John over the paper he had been reading, setting it down and reaching for the alcohol cabinet. The man is pale and fidgety, hands gripping too tightly to the back of the chair he’s standing behind. “Scotch?” John shakes his head, scowling at the elder Holmes brother and changing tack. 

“We both know it’s your fault. You took him from me. You tipped Moriarty’s hand, made Sherlock do... that.” He probably shouldn’t find it so easy to say the man’s name; Sherlock. Most people struggle with things like that when a love one dies. Hmmm. He’d have to remember that. John watches Mycroft’s face for the tell-tale flicker of emotion. He feels the lick of satisfaction as Mycroft looks pained, conflicted.  

"I'm truly sorry John, I am, but I will not give you this." John grits his teeth, somewhat unsure why he's pressing the issue so much. 

"Mycroft." It's a growl. 

“I’m not giving you one more thing of my brother’s! You have his papers, his violin, his home! I will not give you this too.” John is surprised by the vehemence in Mycroft’s voice, the sentiment too startles him. He’d not given much passing thought to Sherlock’s possessions, how they’d remained at Baker Street. “He left it all to you. Everything. His trust fund, his life’s work, his possessions. You don’t get his body to.” John’s eyebrows shoot into his hair. Sherlock had left him things. Had left him everything. How odd.  

“You can have it all. I don’t” care. “mind.” 

Mycroft tips his head, and swallows the last of his scotch. His tone calmer. “I will respect my brother’s wishes. But you cannot have his skull John.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating, then adds softly. “It’s not healthy.” 

John feels rage flood through him, wants to kill Mycroft now, feel the satisfaction as the man’s blood spilled onto the carpet. Perhaps he’d fuck him too, add salt to the wound. Get some pleasure out of all this shit. He settles his face into a hard mask, fingers twitching against the fabric gripped between them. 

"Fine." He moves forward and grasps the scotch bottle, pouring himself a measure. Mycroft tracks his movement with his eyes. "Moriarty. His men. I want files on local members of his web. I want to take them down for what they did." He doesn't look at Mycroft as he says this, knocking back his scotch. 

"If you wish. If it will stop you pursuing Sherlock, will let you move on. It would be agreeable." The words are strange, but John barely notices, his blood is singing. "Four files. Four files only, and then you stop." The elder Holmes's voice is firm and John nods. Four is better than none. Besides, going after these he'd likely uncover more undesirable characters, people no one would mind disappearing.  

 

The files are thick, manila envelopes curving against their contents. He's careful when opening them, putting his tea aside to slide the first out. Pictures, wire taps, transcripts, maps, background info. CLASSIFIED emblazoned across the top of each, mocking him. John roots round in the desk drawer, carelessly pushing aside Sherlock's things as he locates the thumb tacks.  The first is an assassin, petite woman, good looking, deadly. John smiles. The second is an arms dealer, top of the food chain. He's a beafy guy with beady eyes and tattoos running down his arms. In every photo, standing over his left shoulder is a body guard, a thick scar tracks down his face from eye to jaw - they should have glued that, not stitched John thinks with a shake of the head. Sloppy. Two files opened, the other two resting harmlessly on the table, he tucks those away for later. He stands in front of the wall, the site of countless case boards over the years, wallpaper peppered with small holes from the tacks and larger bullet holes from John's gun. Everything is slotting back into place he thinks with a smile.   

* * * * * *

The arms dealer he dispatches first, tracking him is easy, the man, buoyed by the supposed security of a body guard and his connections is sloppy and lazy. It is disappointingly easy for John to catch the pair of them alone, the bodyguard crumpling uselessly, hand barely closing over his weapon before John's bullet lodges in his skull. The man himself is alarmed by this - stupid, death was part of his game, what did he think those weapons he sold did? Decorate walls? - John sneers a cold smile and knocks him out with a sharp crack over the head. 

Three steps forward. Turn. Three steps back. Turn. Repeat. He's going to wear a hole in the floor at this rate, waiting for the man to come around. John growls in frustration and slaps the man across the face as hard as he can, causing his head to snap to one side and red to blossom across his cheek. A low groan signals the man is regaining consciousness. He comes to slowly, panic lighting his eyes as he takes stock of his position; standing with his hands bound behind his back and a noose tied loosely around his neck. His mouth is not gagged but he clearly realises screaming will get him nowhere in this district. He eyes John warily. 

"I believe you know an acquaintance of mine. Mr Montague."  

"I'll give you whatever you want. Arms. Drugs. Money. Don't kill me." The man pleads, and John tsks softly. 

"It's rude to interrupt." He replies and shoots out Montague's right knee. The man howls in pain, collapsing forward and jerking upright as the noose tightens around his neck, cutting of the oxygen. Tears stream down his face, which is contorted in pain. 

"As I was saying. I believe you know Jim Moriarty, don't you Mr Montague?" John asks calmly, stepping closer again. 

"Is that what this is about? I was faithful. I never took anything. I did what he asked. I did what he asked." Montague sobs, clearly thinking John is one of Moriarty's men. 

"Exactly. A friend of mine was killed because of Jim Moriarty. The man strapped semtex to my chest and made me his pawn." The scorn is palpable in John's voice. 

"I didn't... I didn't have anything to do... with that." Montague gasps. John fires his gun again, and the man's shoulder explodes in red. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

"Perhaps you know something about the snipers though. Their weapons. Either way it makes no difference. You're a dead man Mr Montague." He shakes his head almost mournfully. The man screams as John presses two fingers into the bloody mess of his shoulder twisting them and scraping his nails along the sensitive flesh. The screams taper off and John smiles, stepping back to study the man before him with a cold gaze. 

 "Still, perhaps you can answer one question for me, and I might end this quickly." Montague nods furiously. "Your contact. The one you coordinated Moriarty's deliveries with. I want his name." There's a beat of quiet, the man's snivelling the only sound. John takes a step toward, reaching down to the man's knee. 

"No! I'm sorry. I'll tell you." He whimpers. John cocks an eyebrow expectantly. "Moran. Sebastian Moran." He gasps out. John considers the name, tucks it away for later and raises the gun. Montague snivels, watching as it's levelled at his chest, then cries out a protest as the aim is lowered. "I told you! Please." John just shrugs, chuckling softly, and lodges a bullet in the man's left kneecap. The following scream is cut short as he loses his footing and the noose tightens again, strangling him slowly. His legs dangle uselessly, unable to support his weight through the pain and damage. His eyes bulge in his head.  

It takes two hours for him to die. Once John is certain of it he unloads the rest of the gun's clip into the man's chest and walks out, leaving the body swinging with the force of the impact. Mycroft would deal with it. If not, John welcomed the retaliation; more people to kill. The police weren't going to waste their time at any rate. 

One down. Three to go. 

* * * * * *

 

He's out shopping when his phone rings, perusing Tesco and contemplating dinner. Absentmindedly he picks up the call, his other hand closing around a tin of beans. "Mycroft." He acknowledges. No, not beans tonight, he moves off through the shop. 

"John. I received your package, all the loose ends were tied up nicely I see." His tone is light, delicate. As if discussing the weather. John tampers down a laugh at the choice of words Mycroft uses to convey this conversation – why not call it as it was? After all, the only people of note listening in would be the government, and as Sherlock had so frequently pointed out Mycroft _was_ the government. "There was just one point I wanted to clarify" and here the man's tone darkens slightly, conveying the severity of the topic for the first time. "This was not an execution Dr Watson. He was tortured. I wanted to know why." He's only half listening really, preoccupied with dinner plans - Bolognese perhaps - but he drags his concentration back to the man on the phone long enough to string together an answer. 

"I'm very angry, Mycroft. Sherlock is dead." Too unconnected sentences and yet Mycroft would not know that. One would, to him, justify the other, rationalise it. 

"Ah. Well, you seem to be coping rather well with the situation. All things considered." Was he? 

"Am I? If you recall I did just murder a man in cold blood. Two in fact. Not sure most people would say that was coping. Mycroft." There is an edge of fury in his tone now, and he's raised his voice a couple of notches. The spaghetti packet rustles as his fist tightens around it. 

"I'd thank you to keep your voice down Dr Watson. The entirety of Tesco does not need to know of your indiscretions does it." Mycroft replies coolly. It settles John's anger instantly, eyes flicking up to the CCTV camera overhead. 

"As you well know, I'm the only one in the surrounding two aisles. I think our secret's safe." He sighs. "I'm Sorry. It's just... look, Sher.... He showed me the battlefield, and I... I miss it. That. our life... I have a lot of pent up anger over the issue. Grief. You know. I'm getting used to things again. It won't happen again. Clean, simple. Got it. Now if you excuse me I've got some shopping to do." He hangs up with one final glance at the camera. When he goes to pay his card goes through effortlessly, isn't declined like it should be by rights – he no longer had any income and at last check his bank account had been all negative figures. There's 12 thousand pounds in his account when he checks it back at Baker Street, and an envelope of at least a grand more sitting on the coffee table. A note flutters to the ground as he counts out the bills. 

_The rest is still in his trust fund. I trust this should tide you over for the time being. Your services are appreciated. MH_  

John snorts a laugh. Poncey git, he was just asking to be gutted. Well, straight to the point and simple, John could appreciate that at least. Dinner could wait. With this much cash, he deserved some fun. 

 * * * * * *

The assassin he woos. Wines and dines, shares a laugh over coffee and finally, finally! She invites him back to her flat for something a little more intimate. She wants to go down on him, so he lets her, watching he kneel between his legs, admire his length. Watches as he disappears into that plush, filthy mouth. It's certainly stimulating he thinks, her teeth scraping over his cock as he plans her murder. He slams his hips forward and feels himself slip into her throat, making her gag a little -that would make an interesting way to kill her, gagged on his cock. When he comes she swallows, and he takes perverse pleasure in seeing her throat work, in the grin that stretches across her lips, eyes dark with arousal when she pulls off with a wet smack, tilting her head back to look at him. He smiles back, one hand still in her hair, holding her there as he slits her throat. She doesn't have time to look surprised. . John slides himself back into his boxers, pulling his jeans up from around his knees and buttoning them tidily. Then crouches, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes down the blade handle. He strokes the blade down her cheek and coos softly. "That's what you get, Mary Morstan, for working for James Moriarty." He smiles. "Bet you didn't see that coming." The blade slips easily between her ribs, nestles in her stilled heart. 

 

Two days later when Mycroft asks him about it he feigns horror. "Who would do that? I slit her throat, yeah, but that? No, I left the weapon yeah, seems a bit grisly to keep it." Mycroft gives him an appraising look and swallows the lie. 

"Just one more thing, Dr Watson." Mycroft watches John carefully. "Ms Morstan showed signs of.... That is to say... Before she died it would seem she engaged in ah... Oral... Sex.... I don't suppose...?" 

"She gave me a blow job and then I killed her. Problem?" John's face is impassive, and slightly scary Mycroft thinks with a twinge if unease, but the expression clears and the normal John seems to come back, ducking his head a little in embarrassment. "She wanted to... You know... It all happened quite quickly, and I mean, at least she got a last moment of pleasure before... ah. Well I killed her." He keeps his gaze downcast, glancing up only once with an embarrassed smile. The elder Holmes brother sighs. 

"Your methods are rather a little unorthodox Dr Watson. Try to reign it in a little would you. I'm not omniscient." He dismisses the other man off with a hand gesture and watches as he slinks out. John Watson was a curious man. He thinks with a frown. He wondered how well Sherlock actually knew him. His thoughts were troubled, but a moment later his PA came flying in, eyes wild. Korea again. Damn. Oh, and the CIA too. Was that? Yes. Nuclear terrorists in... Oh, for God's sake people. Mycroft Holmes was so busy sorting out other people's messes that his mind completely skipped over John Watson, and the next time they spoke the man was so affable and charming he utterly forgot about his concerns. He really shouldn't have been so careless. 

 * * * * * *

 John's third file leads him on the trail of a child molester currently involved in a particularly nasty lot of human trafficking. John, himself isn't to bothered by any of this, but is thoroughly disappointed the man doesn’t seem to enjoy his death. Criminals, he's starting to realise, are either immaculately careful or sloppy idiots. And even the careful ones get sloppy in certain situations. Like when a bellhop turns up mysteriously offering the "complimentary champagne, sir" that they have never received before. But if the bellhop is charming and earnest enough, and the champagne expensive enough.  

"Oh, set it on the table." Malik, the Child molester come human trafficker, gestures inside, turning his back to John. He goes down effortlessly under the blow John delivers to the back of his's neck. Tying him up is hard work – the man is deceptively heavy for his lithe frame – but John has patience, and time, manoeuvring the man into the bath tub. It probably helps that he's not bothered that Malik's head hits the side of the tub four times as John heaves him in. A splash of water in the face and he comes to quickly enough, which is just as well, John can feel the excitement humming under his skin. 

"We're going to have some fun, you and I." John says gleefully. "You've been a very bad man, and some friends of mine are none too happy. So, they've given you to me. Which is the best thing, because now we get to do an experiment. Sherlock liked experiments before he died. He'd have appreciated this one I think." He fetches the bellhop trolley from the bedroom, fitting it in between the bath and sink and retrieving the canisters stashed under some fresh laundry. John uncaps the acid carefully and appraises Malik's naked frame carefully. "Where should we start? Hmmm." He cocks his head and Malik stares at him wide eyed and quiet behind the gag, shaking his head furiously. "Your feet. I agree." John smiles and tips acid gently into the bath. It hisses as it collides with skin, eating away at the flesh rapidly. Malik screams. "None of that now." John chides, irritably. "You're meant to be paying attention. How will we be certain of the effects if you don't provide a second opinion?"  

The third time Malik passes out John sighs and mournfully pours the rest of the acid over the body, it eats away at the flesh and bone until nothing of the man remains, washed away down the drain. Sherlock would have appreciated being dissolved in acid. Likely would have provided a running commentary on the feeling, what was happening. He'd have been fascinated to watch the effects of the acid on living flesh. But Sherlock was dead, and Malik a poor replacement for the fun they would have had. Honestly, the man had barely made a minute of his flesh being eaten away before he'd fainted. It was highly irritating. John scowls fiercely as he runs the tap in an effort to persuade any remaining evidence down the drain. He splashes bubble bath in, to remove the frankly appalling smell that has taken up residence, and returns the now empty bottles of acid back to the trolley. He's still scowling as he exits the hotel and turns in search of a pub and a prostitute; people were so achingly dull these days and he had no time for their pedestrian interests or any intention of faking emotion tonight. The only emotion he feels currently is a burning anger which is directed vaguely in the direction of Sherlock Holmes – the bastard was still antagonising even from the grave – and partially at the human race as a whole – who fail to grasp the significance of John Watson. Perhaps the whore would appreciate death? Sherlock had solved enough cases about dead prostitutes for John to be certain that one more death in that profession would go unremarked and unsolved. He's still pondering this when the black car pulls up and whisks him back to Baker Street. Another night then. 

 * * * * * *

In the three weeks between victim's _file's_ three and four, John finds himself at a particular cemetery in London, standing in front of a particular grave, at two in the morning, with a shovel. It is, he muses whilst shovelling dirt out of a steadily growing hole and watching the sweat run down his arms, the most logical way of getting Sherlock's skull if Mycroft won't give it to him. It only vaguely occurs to him that Sherlock won't have had enough time to decompose yet and he'll have to physically cut the head away from the body and work out how to clean away the messy flesh. And it doesn't at all occur to him that when Sherlock jumped off a fucking building, he smashed his skull open onto the pavement outside Bart's thus rendering the prize he's after ruined. In the end, none of it matters, whether it occurred to John or not, because as four a.m. rolls around and John finally clears away enough earth to open a very posh looking coffin with engraved flowering and the brass plate shinning out Sherlock's name, he discovers something which elicits a sharp bark of laughter out of him; Sherlock's body isn't there. In fact, if John looks closely, it never was. Mycroft buried an empty coffin just to keep John from getting his hands on Sherlock. John's doubled over laughing when he realises. The anger that follows is swift and all-encompassing – the only type that John ever experiences, given how it prickles under his skin waiting to be felt at any moment. He was going to bloody murder Mycroft Holmes. Just as soon as he worked out the best way to do it. 

The sky is beginning to turn that curious shade of purple that announces the upcoming arrival of dawn, when John lays down inside of Sherlock/notSherlcok's coffin. It's curiously comfortable down on the hardwood, gazing up at the arrival of a new day. He should have started earlier, he thinks, watching the clouds shift overhead. He'd have had more time then. More time to enjoy this. The groundskeeper starts his shift at half past six, and it's encroaching on five already. People are curiously averse to others digging up graves, even empty ones, and John has nothing but loathing for people who _see_ him, look at him with that disapproving glance without being truly horrified. Mind you, he loathes people who don't see him, who only see the jumpers and the doctor, despite the fact the image is carefully cultivated. In fact, he loathes people in general. Except Sherlock. He didn't loathe Sherlock. Who saw him but didn't. Who thought he saw everything there was to see, had John pinned down to a T. but in reality, could never have truly known. Else he wouldn't have stayed. The aching heaviness of his bones as he stands threatens to send John right back down into the earth, close the lid and just. Stop. But there is still the last name, the last file to work through. Still the promise of death and power and John Watson bathed in blood that isn't his own. John wonders if Sherlock ever felt this way - the all-encompassing tiredness with the world that threatened to break his damn back and send him further off the edge in to the abyss of madness than he already was. He must have. The drugs, and later the Work, John thinks, were Sherlock's coping mechanism. Murder, is John's. They made a fine pair. John the murderer and Sherlock the detective. He could have given Sherlock a case like no other if he'd wanted. Strung London out with death an ill wishes 'till Sherlock had realised; his own pocket doctor was his own pocket murderer. But he hadn't. And Moriarty had. Had _taken_ Sherlock from him. John wanted to grind the man's bones to dust. None of it mattered anymore though. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock is dead.  Moriarty was alive. Moriarty is dead. John was alive. John is alive. God how he hates them both. 

Dawn breaks fully as John climbs back over the fence, dropping down three minutes before the groundskeeper starts his shift and ambling into the sprawling, disowning, animosity that is London. 

 * * * * * *

The fourth case is so achingly dull. He kills six people in the space of 8 minutes but none of it _helps_ – it's all just a distraction, he isn’t feeling the game anymore. The morons were begging for it, so obvious in their transgressions it’s like they weren’t even trying to hide it. Pop.pop.pop. And down they go, one by one. Like dominoes. Guns are so _boring_! And soulless too. John grows tired of the people everywhere of their incessant chatter, and really, what's one building full of people in comparison to the whole damn world? Explosives are exciting, new toys to master. He can't recall the death count, just the fact the target wasn’t amongst those scattered across the tarmac. No, he doesn’t catch up with him for another two days, which brings us back to the six killed in eight minutes. Things are coming out of order in John's head. There are bodies piled around him, their blood seeping into the beige carpet and clogging his nose with the stench of it. The target is closest, partially atop his shoes, John's fairly certain the knife in his hand created those marks, that artwork of gashes in human flesh Which is odd, because his gun is warm against the small of his back, and the other corpses, which leak blood and ooze brain matter are pecked with bullet holes. A door slams in the corridor beyond, causing John to jerk his head up. Footsteps echo off the tiled corridor; pap, pap, pap, drawing closer to the open door, he cocks his head slightly as the sound become more distinctly the click of a woman’s heels. She’s there too soon, and John’s head is so slow! A pretty brunette, her hair pinned up professionally with only a few loose curls framing her delicate face. Perfectly cared for nails whose shimmering red varnish matches the colour of her dress, and stand out stark against the paleness of her face as they raise to cover it. Her small mouth twists and opens to let out a high note of distress, not yet rounded out to a scream. Baby blue eyes which widen in shock even further as John crosses the room in two strides, heedless of the bodies he steps on, and crushes one blood stained hand to her face, cutting off the pitiful wail. A tear escapes to trail down her cheek and across his fingers, taking on a faintly pink hue as it tracks downwards. 

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.” He could, he thinks, it might be easier. But she’s pretty and uninvolved, and Mycroft would worry, would _pry_ too much if John offed this lady. His heart isn’t in it anymore regardless. “I’m an agent of the law.” In some ways. “These were some very bad men, and I was doing my job. It’s okay. You’re okay. Let’s go somewhere and sit down for a moment okay?” She nods, relaxing fractionally, her eyes bore into his, but trust is filtering through. He smiles gently, removing his hand and guiding her down the hall. 

“C…Close… You should close the door.” Its hushed and shaky, but her voice is a sweet as she looks. 

“Okay, you’re probably right. I’ll just do that, and then I need to check in with my boss. Hang tight for a moment, make sure no one comes this way alright.” She's a fighter, he thinks, swinging round and heading back towards.... well, towards his own madness. You're a professional, woman, in her late 20's who comes across a room full of dead bodies and a blood-soaked madman standing in their midst, what do you do? His giggled is snuffed out by the shadow which stretches behind the small frosted window of the door. He pings a text to Mycroft and steals closer. 

John halts in the doorway, surveying the damage he's caused, cataloguing the reactions of the man who peers down at the bodies, lips curled in disgust. 

“So, you're the one picking of the British web.” His voice is deep, with just a hint of an accent. “John Watson. We underestimated you. Mind you, grief can do strange things to a man.” There is sadness underlying the statement, and John feels loathing curl I’m his gut. It cools next to the disappointment this man brings to him. Sebastian Moran. He recognises the assassin/right hand man of Moriarty from the information he's gathered since File 1 gave him the name. John had been hoping to draw out the hunt a little longer, give a proper chase. Perhaps it's for the best, in the end. John can feel himself spiraling out of control, losing his grip on reality. 

“You actually cared for Moriarty?” He spits. 

“As much as I could, yes. He was a brother in arms. The most brilliant mind of course, and crazy to boot.” A soft smile flashes across Moran's face, swiftly replaced by a colder, more sinister grin. “It just means I'll enjoy killing you even more so. You can join Holmes in the ground for all the work you've ruined. For James’ death.” 

Moran's gun is drawn before John can clasp a hand around his, but it doesn't matter, John can throw knives with stunningly accurate precision, and force to match. The hilt of the blade protrudes ugly from Moran's reddening throat, and the smaller blade John had had hidden in his sock is lodged satisfyingly in Moran's left eye. It feels like the weight of the world is on John's shoulders still, and he is _tired_. Still, the lick of satisfaction as he watches Moran's body crumple to the floor isn’t diminished. It's been two and a half years since Sherlock threw himself off a building, nearly two years since John started this chase, and it all ends here, and now. With that knowledge John slumps to his knees and weeps. 

The agents who find him hustle him into a car without a word, seemingly unaffected by his out pour of emotion, nor the slightly gruesome end of his opponents. Dimly John stifles thoughts of how much cleaning the car will cost, what with blood leaking onto the no doubt expensive interior. His mind flits to the girl for a fraction of a second before she is dismissed from his thoughts forever; in another life, he could have married a girl like her. But now, in this life, his task is over, his bed is warm, and he intends to sleep for the next month if he can manage it. 

  * * * * * *

Two year, eight months, and three days after John's life seemingly fell apart on a patch of pavement outside a London hospital, he returns to Baker Street feeling full and sated after a generous meal and an encounter with a delightful girl who'd not had a problem with a little BDSM. The monster in his head is quiet, content for now. His good mood is chased away rapidly when the lights flick on in the kitchen to reveal the slightly hunched figure of the once tall and prideful man who'd inhabited Baker Street before his skull had been shattered – or not, as the case seems to be. The monster in John's head roars, anger prickling and bubbling beneath his skin. He'd turn 'round and walk right back out of the flat again, if he weren't so damn happy to see Sherlock Holmes. If he wasn't so happy to have his plaything back in one piece. His fury is exhaled in one long sigh through his nose, causing Sherlock's shoulders to sag and words to bubble onto his lips. 

The explanation he gives, through clipped sentences and barely concealed winces, feels like a hot poker being driven through John's heart. Jealousy soars within him, clouding his focus on the slightly swaying form whose fingers are trembling as they unbutton a deep red shirt, revealing the myriad of cuts and bruises and burns, brands put there by someone who wasn't John. He has the urge to leave. He could see himself standing outside Molly Hopper's house, with a gun pressed to her pretty little head. BANG! And she's dead. But, Sherlock's here. Alive. So, John kisses him, because it feels like he should, it feels like he's reclaiming the prize he's been denied. Sherlock's mouth is soft against his, pliant to him, uncomplaining even as John's thumbs dig into lacerations on his chest. When he pulls back, Sherlock's eyes are hooded, his hands curl at John's hips, holding them together loosely. They stand there for minutes, watching each other, observing the pain reflected back at them, 'till John shifts slightly, and feels Sherlock's hardness against him through their trousers. He's hard too, he realises, and they crash together. Onto the bed, remove their clothes, move together like this is normal. He stares down at Sherlock writhing beneath him, arching into him and snaps. The pillow is cool beneath his fingertips, his mouth hot against Sherlock's for a brief kiss. Sherlock struggles, but John is strong, is on top, is _inside_ him. It takes longer than he expected, but eventually Sherlock stills beneath him, the last clench of his body around John making him spill into him, leaving behind the last evidence. He removes the pillow gently from Sherlock's face, moving inside to place a kiss against the rapidly cooling lips. He hums a tune softly as he nestles into the man's side, petting the dark curls absently.  

"I think I love you." He tells the body, smiling softly. The metallic taste of the gun makes him cringe, right before he pulls the trigger. After that, he can't taste anything anymore. 

 


End file.
